He walks slowly
As if he is about to pounce?
His lips move as if

Words should be

Pouring

Out

But no sound
Comes out

They say he's a Freak but
No one dares to say “hi”
They just cross the street
With cautious eyes.
His hair is greasy, dark, and thick
And his clothes seem to swallow him whole

No one has ever heard him speak
But he carries a notebook-
Its worn as if
its lived too many lives
No one questions what could be in it

But

If they opened the book
Did not cross the street
They would read of his service in the marines
Say “hello” for the first time
When they eventually close the book


They would understand.